The Apprentice
by PandoraxBakaNeko
Summary: "Michael, it is not as simple as you speak of. By the age of eighteen, I must never love a man because if I do, my heart will wither and my whole body will turn into stone. You must understand that being an apprentice under Howl is my key in breaking this curse." she said. "B-but, Clarence, you're a girl! Falsifying your identity to an infamous wizard doesn't count!" (HowlxOC)


THE APPRENTICE

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:: **1: **In which a juvenile scours a wizard ::

_—The Chronicles of a Wretched Curse, a Silver-tongued Fledgling, and a Perplexing Quest—_

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Porthaven was plagued with an unpromising tempest – a sailor's dismay. Its mighty gale squalled upon the hapless village with a rasping fist, making every door and window shudder in fear from its wrath. Swarthy clouds riddled upon the forlorn sky with a relentless drizzle flooding the cobblestone streets. Though upon the dead of night, bricked chimneys huffed with ashen puffs and radiating upon the lit windows are friendly silhouettes of a mother tucking her children to their pleasant slumber and gracing them with a soft kiss upon their pale foreheads.

Oh, the delight of childhood! Bittersweet as those memories were, the young chap had to brush off those prominent windows which sparkle with smiles and chocolate-sweet kisses. Then again, as for the current condition of our little hero…

One brawny hand grappled a fistful tug onto a lad's collar in the most suffocating fashion while his fists fruitlessly sent feeble hits onto the man's firm rotund biceps, hoping, at least, his blows could irk the best out of him. Oh dear, and it all happened so hastily. "Bloody brat!" cursed the vulgar man as he shoved his petite guest onto the frigid road. "I told ya to get lost!"

Soaked and sprawled onto the damp floor, his hand rubbed his scuffed chin. "You didn't answer my question, you geezer!" he roared with an unscrupulous sneer.

The resident blacksmith's thick arms crossed in authority. His bushy brows remained stitched and his prissy glout was unwavering. "I told ya! I don't let me self near one of them bloody magic-users!" pure detest sizzled onto his heated curses. Does this _brat _ever learn how to yield that he bores _abhor_ for those damned wizards? "Them no good rascals bring nothin' but bad luck." He whispered in a loathing dignified manner with a chaffed spit before turning his heels and slamming the door.

He wobbled onto his feet, constraining himself from the brink of tripping. His shaky hand coiled onto the railings while the other came to fish his drenched hat and ragged luggage from a puddle. Then the door flashed open once more. "Get out, mutt!" the man barked as he threw the shaggy sheepdog outside the cold along with its foolish master. And another door slam.

He cried in worry, "Lowell, are you alright?" The hound merely whined, but stood, heartening that it is alright from any casualties. A small smile of relief painted his features as he graced his friend a gentle pat in the head – the one Lowell always favored. Soon, his pleasant smile diminished into a scowl, and glared back at the wooden aperture. "I hope you rot under the lowest pits of hell, you…you damn bastard!"

The dog also growled along with its canine teeth glittering in the rain. The boy sniffed and dumped his cap onto his burgundy mane. "C'mon, Lowell." He called collectedly as he slung his bag on his shoulder though every bit of his tone had a pure mollified spleen behind every octave. His companion, in return, obeyed silently with its big chocolate eyes peeping from its white and slightly tinted gray strands – his sign of concern after his master's foul temper.

A sigh draped his lips. "Lowell, I'm fine. Don't look at me like that." But, its eyes widened even more – much to his discomfit, popping like freshly roasted chestnuts from Christmas Eve. Oh, Good Lord. Damn these pleading tactics. He gave another sigh and tugged his lips into a grin. "How about I buy us a snack?" it yapped in a joyous mood, the question piquing its interest.

The peculiar pair strolled along the streets in search for the nearest bakeshop despite undergoing the perils without an umbrella. Though, it was no hassle for those two as long as they stay by each other's side. That's what matters. Ah, there goes the saying after all, _a dog is a boy's best companion_. Being blessed with fortune's faint glimmer, his green orbs caught the sight of a small delicate bakery.

Nearing the said shop, the red-haired adolescent felt fortunate for there was at least some covering above the shop, sheltering them from the rain shower. Exhibited before their famished eyes were a row of tempting and sugar-coated delicacies exposed behind a protective glass display, and there was no doubt that the scent of freshly baked bread lingered the area gingerly. Their stomachs rumbled. An aged man – surely, the shop owner – gave them an anticipating stare. "Two biscuits, please." He muttered, placing two sordid pennies on the counter.

Scraggy fingers clawed onto the coins and propped their light treat— erm, well, more like, their supper. "Thank you." His mouth twitched in mirth as he raked the paper bag to his lap as he sat at the stool. His hand tossed the small loaf to the dog right beside him while he gobbled onto his own, savoring the faint warmth it held. "Don't worry, Lowell. Someday, we'll have scones glazed with honey and a mountain of cream cakes." Came his reassured answer over the sulking hound who has devoured his meal without one crumb at sight.

"Aren't you going to get sick in the cold…C..C-Cla…what was it again?" the elder tapped his whiskery chin, trying his best to attain the familiar chap's name. "Ah, Claus—"

"—_Clarence_, Mister Brecket." The juvenile corrected as he chomped onto his biscuit. Filibert Brecket was one of Porthaven's distinguished bakers despite maintaining such a simple bakery for the following years. He has passed his prime quite splendidly through the trails of white strands poking onto his once dark tresses and few from the bristly hairs under his chin. Though, he has lived to tell the tale of the events that circled this seedy town with enough detailed memory to put the daily newsprints to shame. Ironic as it sounds, he's quite forgetful most of the time.

This did not cease him to ask, "Well, boy, when do you plan on going back home?" For a quite a while now, he has always seen this boy wander to these eerie streets for a few weeks of no end both penniless and without a home. The lad would go to his shop every day to buy some measly bread that could just be enough for himself and his eccentric friend. It sparked even the faintest of flames of his curiosity and the slimmest chance of his solicitude.

"Don't have one." Clarence grumbled, ravenously tearing the small loaf through his teeth. _Nothing to return to now, anyways. _The slightest thought of returning back _that place_ did not exactly excite or relief him one bit like any lost tod. Actually, he never did. He did have his own purposes why he came to this shabby locality than the sublime city where he belonged.

Simply, Clarence Liddle held onto a fiery resolution that altered his perspectives and personal aims as an ignorant child and that was to become a wizard of Ingary. Of course, the lucid idea was enough to be weened as a ludicrous statement, especially to his parents that dared laugh at his conceptions. On the contrary, to his conviction, this was his key of attaining a way of breaking his curse – that is if he had some knowledge of breaching it. He was willing to learn – to devote his time and self under a great wizard of exceptional abilities.

And for a year, he has been scavenging for one, but alas, there was none. It was decreed from that damned curse that at the age of eighteen, his heart will wither and his body will turn into stone if he fell in love with a man. Oops. That didn't sound right. Shedding some light to the picture, Clarence is more than what meets the mortal eye. He is no lad, but rather, a maiden in disguise. In truth, her real name is Clara Liddle – a young woman who strives to become a wizard under a wretched curse.

Concealing her identity was merely a precaution for she was already at nineteen years of age, and this came to be a customary practice granted by her parents due to this horrid fate she lived under her childhood. She will break that curse – that was what she swore before. She will prove _them_ all wrong. She will not continue to live under a secrete world in vain and scrutinize how she perished from a ghastly spell. With a tenacious spirit and confidence, she will _change _her destiny.

Mister Brecket remained vigilant at the adolescent. "I heard from Albert that you got into a quarrel with our local blacksmith," his dark eyes caught a glimpse of her nails heartily puncturing the half-eaten biscuit. "What happened exactly?"

Clara gave a miffed huff. "He wouldn't answer my damn question." She took another savage bite. Oh, how she riled that blasted man – especially, the cruelty he forecasted onto her dear Lowell! How unforgivable! It was no more but a doleful evening, and she heard from some tenants that there was an old blacksmith in Porthaven who has dwelled in the town even before Wizard Jenkins resided. Though, they didn't care to share a tip that he scourges the living existence of mages. An obvious product of this was the misfortune she confronted.

And he was one to slander and shame a gentleman's etiquette! She nimbly questioned the man for any lodging wizards inhabiting the coastal town, but as response, he presented an unattractive frown – one that dutifully makes her skin crawl – and horded all his foul resentments to those mystical beings of magic. When she defended and announced her motive of taking apprenticeship, he snagged her by the collar and flung her away as if a pest that must be disposed of. The nerve of that vexing geezer!

Her discontent mouth mumbled a string of curses. Most of them are quite unsettling. "I am not sure if you will appreciate this piece of information, but Claude—"

"—Clarence." She chided wearily with a gruff tone. Though she grew accustomed of being called by her alias instead of her name, there were times that it did pester her that not many folks bothered to get her name right. How irksome.

Clearing his throat, the elder pushed on, "A year ago, Wizard Jenkins disappeared without a trace, and Porthaven had to encounter its vices and public crisis with no aid of magic. Those earlier days gave bitter memories to all who resided, but soon enough, the town had to adapt to this sort of environment – one lacking a talented warlock—"

Her fine brow arched, dubious. "Are you telling me to cede?"

"Not really. Let me finish, boy," Disheartened, this young fellow was an impolite one. Especially, in conversations – he thought in scrutiny. "I'm not really a credulous-type of man, but from the rumors that's been buzzing, I heard that Wizard Jenkins' old apartment had lights flickering behind its window every night. It could be possible that Wizard Jenkins might have returned or the mischievous spirits that he "summoned" before he left came to haunt his own abode. Well, that's all I can tell you, kid."

"I see…" the lass stood with brimming confidence as she munched the remnants of her cheap snack. Flinging her bag to her shoulder once more, she gazed at the sheepdog – a sign of their departure. It understood and stood beside her, wagging its tail in anticipation.

"Where're you going?" he questioned. This brash sapling was not only discourteous but _mad_ as well! That piece of information he shared was more of a warning than an encouragement. Despite the misunderstanding, this one had unquestionable tenacity, willing to travel into an old – and probably, perilous – edifice in the darkest of nights and plunge into a storm albeit being drenched. And for what? To confirm the truth from a tall tale. Oh woe, the nonsensical wits of striplings!

"To Wizard Jenkins' apartment," her green orbs shimmered like brilliant emeralds, carved in the most resplendent orbs. There are some things which are worth a shot. "I want to know for myself."

A sigh escaped out of his cracked lips. "I wish you the best of luck then, chap!" he gratified a cordial adieu while she left through the violent rain with her enthusiastic friend.

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Clara grew hesitant at the moment – an unorthodox demeanor of hers. The zeal that flared her irises crashed into an opaque glance, inspecting the blanched brick walls be reckoned enough as a mire with the soot and bog sullying its languished glory. It further wrinkled her nose in disgust that stalks of creepers and weeds encrusted the crumbling concrete as is if it was a withering structure— nope, actually, it is _the _withering structure. The notion made her feel incredulous from her gut.

What's more vacillating was that there were no windows for her to peer what monstrosity or enigmatic beings were sealed before her mortal eyes. In a twist of irony, the only window she caught was a small murky window temptingly flaunted above the door— miraculously, the faintest gleam lit. To her dismay, it was not enough for her reach for peeping. She was left to either imagine the great wonders and horrors of this building or simply knock to conclude the fabricated stories.

Lowell tipped his nose to his owner's frail hand, emboldering her to perform the action. In return, she patted his nose lightly. Drawing her breath, her knuckles softly pounded the wooden aperture in hopes that at least someone would answer it. The maiden waited for a few minutes yet it appeared no one bothered to open door anytime soon. She knocked once more, but nary a sound was out of place. On the dawn of waiving, she held onto her last resort.

Her lithe fingers coiled onto the knob. About to twist it, it came interrupted when the entrance creaked open on its own. Her face was the portrait of muddle. "You are…Wizard Jenkins?" she trailed off, endeavoring her best husky voice – at least, near to a male who has yet to succeed his puberty. She could never apprehend that the great sorcerer would be a _boy_.

He was a glistening product at his adolescence – a youth of sixteen, and a handsomely tall chap with tousled brunette hair and equally dark eyes. His face sent no black impressions despite that, he gave a congenial sort of appeal. Trustworthy and candid. And sprinkling more of her praises, he is respectably dressed – the kind of clothing that made him appear as if he hailed as a son of a prosperous farmer or merchant. "No, I am not," She might have mistaken him too much as the great conjurer. Maybe, novel tenants lodged this apartment. "What is your purpose here?"

Clearing her throat, a satisfying answer came, "I came to meet Wizard Jenkins in the living flesh." Though, this further worsened his skepticisms.

"Well, he is absent at the moment." This was quite big news indeed! It had been a year since everyone has heard of _the_ Wizard Jenkins. He was certain that he had already spread rumors that this praised wizard disappeared – just as told. Now, came before him was an ambiguous fellow in search of his mentor. A customer or a foe in disguise? Unfortunately, he could not determine. Well, still, there was no reason to lie now since he blurted it on his own, and maybe, this one was a feasible client – they _were_ shortening in capitals.

Peculiar enough, this "young lad" had an androgynous complexion and somewhat possessed a petite form. Michael did pin a fact that those smoldering emerald orbs held no ounce of fear yet an ample amount of intensity. It was clear enough that this one had an indomitable spirit or either a reckless character to start petty quarrels. Another vivid trait was that crown of cordovan locks which were long enough to be tied behind "his" head, but short enough to be less of a hindrance.

"When can I meet him?" the redhead asked eagerly, beaming.

A sigh lightly met his lips. "I cannot guarantee he can return before dawn." Old habits never die from a stubborn wizard, perhaps. Especially, after _the_ _incident_.

She impelled contently, "I do not mind waiting all night." On the other hand, she hoped he allowed her to sojourn a night. There was no other place she could dwell in but the harsh outdoors in a furious weather, and she only had a trifle amount of money left. Porthaven always gave scarce wages to any street urchin who toiled for servile undertakings from lifting ponderous crates to clearing manure from coops.

"Oh, but—"

"It is a necessity that I meet him," she said in an obstinate manner. "I can guarantee you that I will depart if he does not return till dawn."

His brow cocked in suspicion. "You are not a pickpocket, are you?"

"Clearly, not." Her arms crossed defiantly.

The brunette mused sedately of the matter, predicting the possible outcomes and probing the good intent behind her fierce gaze. It was quite a hassle actually. And another one of these hurdles were his refined manners towards possible customers— it appeared that this one did _want_ to wait for the said warlock but _literally_ in comfort of his home. _But what would Howl think if I let him in? _His conscience was a pain. "Alright then." He said nimbly, gesturing her inside with a horrid churn in his stomach that this will _indeed_ stir trouble.

This was how Sophie coaxed him before. Drat.

As she set foot inside, the sheepdog tailed behind her which caught him in slight surprise. It shook vigorously, spraying droplets like rapid bullets, while its master had no intention of shedding her dank coat or bother taking off her cap, creating a small puddle underneath her. "If you require aid in a spell of some sort, maybe I could be of use instead of him," Lenient as usual, he stated simply as he ascended from the stairs. "He does not take in customers anymore."

Clara followed behind him, climbing through the stairs as well. "Oh, but my reasons are far from it." She unconsciously gnawed her inner cheek as her once collected eyes popped open from flurry, immense curiosity, and – the most evident emotion – _repulsion_. Ah, how should she explain this…she would have never expected that the famous wizard preferred to live in a pigsty. Yes, a _pigsty_— a living, non-breathing hodgepodge.

Though, it _was _certainly a lair of a sorcerer. There was this mysterious ambiance she felt within the cold stone walls with raw power reeking within the parlor— a cowing and suffocating might that made her feel like an insect. It was vehement. Mystical. Arcane to many. And above all, _magical_. Upon the dowdy walls were a curtain of cobwebs and dust and what fairly competed with it was the clusters and bundles of herbs and extraneous roots, dangling above.

Her starving gaze wandered off to the small workshop right next to said lounge with marvellous towers of leathery books – though shelled with grime and leaden of its once lustrous charms – with drab shelves slumped with scrolls with alien inscriptions and pastiche, more books of spells, and oddly, roots – that appeared to be growing underneath. She wouldn't be surprised if moles inhabited there. Gross. There were also vials with strangely colored liquids, some powders, and flasks from curvaceous necks to ones with triangular bodies.

Michael asked, her cryptic motives goading his interest, "Then, what do you seek here?"

Sundering her from her brilliant view of wizardly novelties, she took a moment to speculate his benign yet doubtful features. "I wish to be his apprentice." Was her solemn reply.

"What for?"

"For the thrill of learning," Clara lied swiftly. Even if she did spill her reasons, it will all come to naught in the end – no wizard broke her spell – and it did not fancy her one bit telling him that she was female and must avoid the risks of "falling in love". It sounded like poppycock to any man, even someone of magic. For a while, she felt fortunate that he did not seem to notice that she _was _a girl. It was a benevolent attribute that she had a, rather, plain appearance. "It was a juvenile dream of mine to be a great mage."

"I see…" a thumb cupped his chin. "I am an apprentice of his, but I am not sure if he is in a forgiving state though."

"I'll still persist in engaging a conversation with him." She pried indefatigably. This was her chance of breaking an impossible spell on her own.

"Hmm," his dark irises scanned her sternly. An awfully obdurate one – he thought. "Ah, my manners, I am Michael Fisher." The corners of his lips quirked into an amiable smile as he offered his hand before her.

"Clarence." The lass muttered, latching his hand. "Clarence Liddle."

He scratched his ruffled locks, irresolute. "I will just continue what I was finishing. Sit wherever you wish." The incognito nodded, fetching her dog onto her sodden arms. On the other hand, while she was in a daze, his head turned to the hearth with his fingers cupped deliberately for whispering. "Calcifer, he doesn't look that trustworthy. Do you think he's a rival wizard in disguise?" the flames flickered in response.

His tufted green brow knitted. "Then, why did you let him in?" the fire demon retorted nastily.

The juvenile eagerly wanted to reply that he was slyly wheedled. "He said he wanted to be Howl's— well, Wizard Jenkins' apprentice." He responded, peaking at the stranger who chose to sit in a chair and fondle her companion at her lap. "He insisted to wait and was a bit headstrong about it."

"Don't worry, I wouldn't have let the boy in if he wasn't harmless," he crackled with reassurance and flaring confidence. He was, after all, from his exalted titular, _the _great demon, Calcifer. That name wasn't forged for frightening children. His torch-like eyes glared heatedly. Just flesh and blood. Upon the glints of his purple pupils, there was nothing special of this odd teen— one which was dearth of magic. But, there was something more— a dreadful _curse_. A potent one from an even preeminent being. "But make sure to keep an eye on him."

"Right." Answered the apprentice before returning back to his novel experiment.

Clara felt it. Something scorching her back with burnt holes. Suspicious eyes. Though, it wasn't just Michael's glance. There was something else that possessed those truculent and kindling eyes but she could not scour for its owner. Her attention was caught by the madly grinning skull right on top of a book she seemingly took interest on, expectant that it will converse her out of her boredom and uneasiness.

Then there her ears heard mumblings. It was the brunette's baritone…and a huskier and crackling-like voice. Unfortunately, she could not eavesdrop their colloquy for she was a distance away from them – enough to only hear rattles and not words. Slightly twisting her head to her side, her green irises captured him speaking with a…_who_ was he speaking to in that hearth? The flickering fire? Preposterous! It could not be! She snapped her head quickly back at the skull the second she met his gaze.

She would have sworn she heard some murmuring from the hearth. Her brows furrowed irritably. Was it truly the flame? But the very conception itself was such a queer case. A dose of absurdity! But there was this aged rumor saying—

In a wizard's lair, always expect the unexpected.

_Expect a long night, Clara._

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**A/N: **My gosh! I finished the first chapter! Oh, and hello, dear reviewer. I thank you sincerely for reading this ridiculous story of mine, but in your kindness, please also review and criticize this story. I hope I succeeded in catching your full interest and attention. Oh, I hope the characterization is fine – I tend to become overreacting to some extent if I cannot confirm if I got it right! By the way, this story just randomly popped in my mind and I couldn't help myself but write it down despite juggling some unfinished stories and this is one of the few projects I wanted to succeed.

Ah, for any confusions:

1. The storyline is based from the book itself because I absolutely loved reading it! But I loved the movie as well.

2. The plot is set after the events that took after the Howl's Moving Castle – more of an aftermath.

3. Sophie Hatter exists. Though, in this plot, she decides not to live in the castle (the reason will be mentioned in future chapters). (Just a reminder, I do not hate her and I have no intention of bashing a character. This is just how my plot winds.)

4. Also, as the aftermath, this one forecasted that Sophie was not able to lift Howl and Calcifer's curse despite her "being able to talk to life into things". (Once more, I am not bashing a character.)

5. I could not confirm if Michael is a brunette or not because nothing much is explained about his appearance.

6. If you have more questions, confusions, or even curiosities, I would gladly answer it.

Lastly, if it was any good, should I continue it?

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**Disclaimer:**I do not own Howl's Moving Castle. This masterpiece belongs to its wonderful writer, Dianna Wynne Jones.


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